Windswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  She’d heard all about the great man widely considered a genius. He could read, write, and speak ten different languages. His essays were published in prestigious journals. His books included a well-respected French grammar, translations of classical Greek and Roman texts, and an impressive discussion of the development of Celtic languages.

  Until today, she’d assumed he was English. But she should have known he was Welsh from his perceptive, intriguing essays that perfectly described the elusive beauty of Welsh verse.

  “Am I to assume that if you’d known who your companion at the lake was,” Bos asked dryly, “you’d not have instructed me to tell him you were ill?”

  An instant pang of conscience hit her. “That was awful of me, wasn’t it? I do apologize for asking you to lie.”

  “Nonsense. If you do not wish to converse with an individual, I am more than happy to lie to keep that individual away.” His voice softened. “I am well aware that you are . . . uncomfortable with strangers.”

  “That’s not why I had you lie. When I first met him, I thought—”

  She couldn’t tell Bos the real reason Evan Newcome had alarmed her. She hadn’t even revealed why she’d gone to London, nor what had happened there. He wouldn’t approve. “It doesn’t matter. I was obviously wrong. And now I’ll look ungrateful for avoiding him, when he honored me by reading my essays and coming to speak with me about them.”

  How amazing that he was familiar with her work. She wished she hadn’t been so hasty in her assumptions about his motives.

  “There is no shame in being circumspect, madam. If you still wish to speak to him, then you are perfectly within your rights. Merely explain that you were exercising caution, and I am sure he will understand why you avoided him.”

  She wished she shared Bos’s conviction.

  Bos cleared his throat. “Your little white lie becomes almost sensible under those circumstances.”

  “Little white lie?” Had Mr. Newcome told Bos how she’d led him down the primrose path by letting him think she and her grandmother were the same person?

  “That you were sick.” Bos’s eyes narrowed. “He should understand why you were reluctant to greet a stranger who’d caught you in a state of undress.”

  “Oh yes.” Unfortunately, Evan Newcome hadn’t struck her as the kind of man who suffered being lied to without complaint. He’d left that shawl deliberately to show he’d found her out. A gentleman would have waited for a private audience to return the item and accept her apologies, but she suspected that Mr. Newcome’s gentlemanly qualities were the merest veneer over a character more forthright—and perhaps more ungoverned—than a gentleman’s should be.

  “What do you intend to do about the situation?” Bos asked.

  Catrin sighed. “I suppose I shall go to the Red Dragon and apologize to him for not seeing him when he came.”

  “Do so only if you truly desire to speak to him. If not, you have every right to continue pretending to be ill until he has left the shire.”

  Oh, how she wished she could. But it was one thing to avoid a painful confrontation with a constable; it was quite another to ignore the generous overtures of a respected scholar. She’d already insulted Mr. Newcome by lying to him. Now she must take her medicine and apologize.

  At her silence, Bos rose. “Do you need any further assistance?”

  “No. Thank you for all your insight.”

  Bos harrumphed. “I merely spoke your own thoughts, I am sure. You have an unerring instinct for the proper way to address troublesome situations.”

  She never knew how to regard Bos’s pronouncements on her character. Was he being tongue-in-cheek or chivalrous? Either way, he couldn’t possibly mean it. Her “instinct” for addressing “troublesome situations” was generally to run and hide, and she doubted Bos would consider that “proper.”

  Bos marched toward the door, his posture erect. “Shall I have a tray sent up or will you eat with the staff as usual?”

  “A tray, please.”

  He frowned. “You do not intend to knit into the wee hours of the night again, do you? Mrs. Griffiths fell into hysterics when you didn’t answer her knock yesterday morning. She was worried you had been kidnapped. It was only when I found you here—after a lengthy search of the house—that she calmed herself.”

  Catrin chuckled. “I suppose I did get carried away. I was afraid I wouldn’t finish this blanket in time to give it to Tess as part of my wedding gift, but I think another hour or two will do it.”

  “Ah, yes, the wedding. Do you mean to attend the joyful event?”

  Bos knew, as did all the staff, that she hadn’t attended a wedding since her own had ended with the death of her husband. “I do,” she said, avoiding his scrutiny. “Annie will never forgive me if I don’t go to her daughter’s wedding.”

  “I see.” And with that, he left.

  Catrin stared at the blanket made of the finest wool from their own sheep. She’d already embroidered the initials of Tess and her new husband. For the first time in five years, looking at a blatant symbol of a new couple’s shared future didn’t rouse her resentment. For the first time, she felt hope—thanks to the chalice.

  She went to open the secret compartment built into the bookshelves, which she used as a safe. Right now it contained her two most valuable possessions.

  The diary of her ancestress. And the chalice.

  Looking at it gave her the same bittersweet thrill as on the night she’d bought it. From the moment she’d touched it, she’d known it would break the curse. The markings matched those in the diary, and her cursory examination led her to believe it was at least a few hundred years old.

  She stared at the bronze etchings: the maiden with her cloud of hair, the stalwart warrior, and the raven, whose dark eyes seemed to glitter. A series of symbols ringed the edge, probably some druidic code. She didn’t know how to interpret them. Lord Mansfield hadn’t been able to enlighten her, either.

  Lord Mansfield. She sank onto a nearby chair. The poor, poor man.

  She still remembered breakfasting in a little English inn and reading the Times, only to discover to her shock that thieves had apparently robbed and murdered him a short while after she’d met with him.

  No wonder she’d felt so uneasy that night that she’d gone out the back way. She’d even decided to return by coach to Wales, instead of waiting for the ship she’d booked passage on. For once, acting on her fears had been the right thing. She’d probably sensed the thieves watching the inn. Perhaps if she hadn’t left through the back door, they’d have attacked her instead of Lord Mansfield.

  A lump formed in her throat. She should have told the authorities that she’d been with Lord Mansfield right before he died, but the thought of enduring all their questions had terrified her. They might have misconstrued her presence there, especially if they’d learned how she’d used her appellation, “the Lady of the Mists,” to lure Lord Mans­field.

  Now she wished she hadn’t. But she’d seen no other way to coax him to a meeting after his mother had refused to sell. As a result of her deception, he’d met her in a public place instead of at his home. And he’d been murdered.

  No, the authorities wouldn’t look kindly on her manipulations, especially if they learned that Lady Mansfield had been against the sale. They might even take the chalice from her. And for what? She’d seen nothing. She couldn’t point them to the murderers.

  At a sound in the hall, she shoved the chalice back into the compartment. This fear of being found out was absurd. One day she’d have to reveal she had it, if only to whomever she married. The whole point had been to make sure she could end the curse and have children to inherit Plas Niwl.

  Now she had a chance to live again. Thank heaven, for the need to find a companion became more intense every day, and not just for practical reasons. To her mortification, she’d discovered she had strange urges and unfamiliar longings that came upon her late at night when she was alone in her bed.


  Although she and Willie had never consummated their marriage, she knew a little of what went on in the bedroom. Now she thought about it more every day. And widows sometimes took lovers. But she couldn’t imagine doing something so brazen, suffering more of the townspeople’s whispers. Besides, she wanted a man who’d be hers forever, who’d look at her with longing in his eyes.

  Unbidden, an image leapt to her mind . . . of a tall gentleman standing on the shore, his gaze moving over her with growing heat as it touched first her throat, then her shoulders, then her breasts—

  Oh Lord. How could she even think of Mr. Newcome that way? He probably had a wife somewhere. And if not, he still wouldn’t look twice at a country mouse like her, with scores of English noblewomen in his social circles.

  Though he had looked twice—and more—when she’d emerged from the lake. No other man had ever stared at her as if he wanted to eat her up.

  Her breath quickened. Would he stare like that tomorrow? By heaven, she hoped not, or she’d never be able to stammer out her apology. She’d make a fool of herself again.

  Only this time, she’d never recover from the embarrassment.

  4

  Evan sat in the common room of the Red Dragon, enjoying a leisurely breakfast without having to rush off to a lecture. The day stretched ahead of him, and it was all his.

  As he sniffed the air redolent with the scent of wild roses and gazed out at the sun burning off the mist, he was glad he’d come here. He’d once hoped to spend his life in Wales, tending a little plot of land and poring over his books before sharing a bed with a loving wife.

  A bitter sigh escaped him. What a pipe dream. He could only make a decent living through the universities. And his experience with his former fiancée, Henrietta, had taught him he wasn’t meant to marry. Life as a gentleman farmer wasn’t for him.

  But he could still enjoy this visit. Llanddeusant was a lovely town set in the foothills of Black Mountain, a perfect place to get one’s mind off one’s troubles.

  What’s more, the Lady of the Mists had proven an intriguing puzzle. She was unlike any woman of her class he’d ever met, even Juliana. He couldn’t wait for their next encounter.

  He frowned. So he could learn more about Justin’s murder. That was the only reason.

  The congenial innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Llewellyn, came to clear the plates from his table. “Will that be all for you, sir?”

  “Yes. The meal was excellent.”

  She beamed. “It’s not often we have guests as distinguished as yourself. I do hope you’re planning to stay a bit.”

  “I’m not sure how long.” He gave her the same tale he’d given Mrs. Price’s servant. “I’m doing research into local legends. That may take a few days.”

  “You mean legends like the story of Llyn y Fan Fach?”

  “Exactly.”

  She plopped down across from him. “Well, I can tell you the whole thing.” With that, the woman launched into the tale.

  That gave him an idea. He waited until she mentioned that travelers still saw the Lady of the Lake, then said, “How odd. Yesterday I met a woman named Catrin Price, who gave me quite a start coming out of the lake.”

  “Did she now?” Mrs. Llewellyn said with a knowing smile. “I’ll bet that’s not all she did.”

  He blinked at her. Surely she didn’t mean what he thought.

  “Come now, I know Catrin’s appeal. Half the lads in Llanddeusant watch her swim when she thinks she’s all alone.”

  His temper flared at the thought of a herd of randy boys seeing what he’d seen. “Perhaps someone should tell her.”

  “Oh no, if she knew, she’d be mortified. She’s painfully shy. She’d never go near the lake again, and I’d hate to deprive her of one of her few pleasures.”

  Shyness would explain her nervousness at the lake.

  “So you saw her swimming, did you?” Mrs. Llewellyn asked slyly.

  He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with an innkeeper’s wife. He’d forgotten how frank the Welsh were. “Yes, but I wasn’t spying on her. I merely happened along and saw her—”

  “Naked as my nail.”

  “In her shift,” he corrected.

  “Which was next to nothing.” She wagged a finger at him. “You saw her in her shift, and you got ideas in your head.” He opened his mouth to retort, but she cut him off. “I know what goes on in a man’s head—and his body—when he sees a fetching girl. And now you want to know all about her, don’t you?”

  Evan was thoroughly nonplused. Yes, he found the woman attractive. And yes, he had indeed felt a strong bolt of lust before he’d discovered who she was. But it didn’t mean his interest in her was prurient.

  But it might be better for Mrs. Llewellyn to think it was. “I did find the woman intriguing.”

  “Intriguing, eh? A good word for Catrin.” A scowl darkened her brow. “Some people aren’t so kind. They call her peculiar.”

  “Because she swims near naked in the lake?”

  “Because folks don’t understand a woman living alone, buried in her books and rarely venturing out . . . They think it’s odd.”

  “But you don’t.”

  She shook her head. “Catrin Price has endured enough tragedy to destroy a lesser woman. I’d think something amiss if she weren’t odd.”

  “What kind of tragedy?” he asked, reminded of what the Vaughans had said.

  “Her parents died before she was three, which is why her maternal grandmother raised her. And her husband died in an accident on their wedding day. A lot of tragedies, that.”

  It was a lot, wasn’t it?

  Mrs. Llewellyn leaned forward. “But don’t believe the tales about her being a witch. She’s not casting secret spells up there at Plas Niwl.”

  He couldn’t hide his amusement. “People really say that?”

  She scowled. “I know you university chaps consider yourselves too clever for such things, but there’s those who hear of Catrin ordering books on druids and look at Willie’s freakish death, then cast about for someone to blame.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “I agree. And it don’t help that her father-in-law, the old bastard, encourages them. He blames her for his son’s death. But the tale-telling isn’t all his fault. When people don’t understand someone, they make up reasons for why. And they don’t understand Catrin’s quiet ways . . . or her interests.”

  Sympathy welled in him. He knew what that felt like. “So she’s an outcast.”

  “More like the village eccentric.” A faint sarcasm entered her voice. “Even though her patronage keeps the charity school going, her land keeps the tenant farmers well-fed, and her generosity maintains our little chapel.”

  He thought of how Mrs. Price had at first offered to give him directions. That was the act of a generous woman, wasn’t it?

  A wry smile creased his lips. He was already making excuses for the woman, based only on the tales of an innkeeper’s wife.

  And the sight of her half-naked.

  He bit back an oath. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because I want you to know her true character before you hear a lot of nonsense from superstitious fools. Especially if you’re . . . er . . . interested in her.”

  Evan fought a pang of guilt at misleading Mrs. Llewellyn. But he couldn’t tell her the truth. She’d go straight to Mrs. Price. “You said she had an interest in druids. Well, so do I. I’m planning a whole chapter on them. Could she tell me more about them?”

  “Oh yes.” Mrs. Llewellyn smiled, apparently pleased that her stories about her friend hadn’t put him off. “Her grandmother made sure she had a fine education. She’s a clever one, she is.”

  “Do you think she’d have any druidic artifacts? Daggers, or . . . perhaps chalices used in rituals? I’d like to put sketches of that sort of thing in my book.” This fictitious book was growing to phenomenal proportions.

  She considered the question. “I don’t think so.
She’s never spoken of any.”

  “I suppose antiquities of that nature are difficult to come by. She’d probably have to go to London for them, and I don’t suppose she travels much.”

  “She did go to London recently. Came back a week ago, she did.”

  Ah—so Catrin Price had to be the one who’d met with Justin.

  “But she didn’t tell me about buying anything,” Mrs. Llewellyn went on, “although I heard she sold a painting to Sir Reynald for a hundred pounds before she left. Can you imagine? For a painting! But then, she’s an heiress. She probably has a hundred paintings worth that.”

  “No doubt,” Evan said dryly. Mrs. Llewellyn had apparently assessed his financial worth and decided that an heiress might tempt him.

  Suddenly a pretty young woman rushed down the stairs. “Mama, you must come set these sleeves. I can’t make them work at all! It’ll never be finished before tomorrow!”

  “I’m coming.” Mrs. Llewellyn rose with a helpless shrug. “You must excuse me. My daughter’s getting married tomorrow, and she’s in a state. If you’ll wait, we can continue our chat about local legends when I’m done.”

  As Mrs. Llewellyn trotted off, he considered the possibility that Catrin had bought the chalice. But a hundred pounds was half the amount she’d offered in the letter. Had she been unable to come up with the other half and thus decided to have the chalice stolen by footpads? Then again, why sell a painting to raise funds for the purchase?

  Until now, he’d postulated that Mrs. Price had lured Justin to the inn with the aim of stealing the chalice. But the shy woman Mrs. Llewellyn described wasn’t the type to engineer such a scheme. Although he didn’t know how Mrs. Price’s husband had died, everyone said it was an accident. Obviously she had wanted the chalice, but she did study druidic objects.

  Still, why not write to Justin using her real name? Why not meet him at his home? What about the missing letter?

  At the sound of someone entering the inn, he glanced up to find the object of his ruminations hesitating on the threshold.

  A flush stained her cheeks, making his pulse quicken. She looked nothing as she had yesterday. Dressed fashionably in a morning gown, she was the very picture of a woman paying a formal call. It accentuated the difference in their stations.